Lost Souls
by Musou Misora
Summary: The war with Voldemort is finally over; he's dead, the wizarding world is free. Everyone is happy...except the Boy Who Lived. Please read and review.


Lost Souls

***

There are many things in this world that are beautiful; truly beautiful, I mean, not the made-up, superficial sort of beauty. There are waterfalls and rainbows, clouds, stars, silent lakes and solitary willow trees. There are forests and birds of all kinds, beasts that roam the wilderness, sweeping plains of wheat, and fires in fireplaces. There is beauty in a quiet day, where the sky is a perfect blue, with nary a cloud in the sky. There are sunrises and sunsets that take your breath away, lonely beaches and ocean shores that beckon to you with their humble appearance. There are winds that blow through your very body and whisper secrets to you from far-off lands.

These are beauties that cannot be forgotten. These are the kind of beautiful things that speak to anyone and can be understood; the message is quiet, yet it hits you with the force of a train: _Be peaceful; let go of your cares and the worries that weigh you down, and enjoy this fleeting moment of solitude._

There is the beauty of the mind. Intelligence and thoughtfulness awaken new possibilities. There is something ardently beautiful when a child learns to read and write, or when a young person discovers that they can draw or play music well.

And then, there is a certain, sure beauty of the soul. The soul sings its aria daily, it paints its Mona Lisa's and Sistine Chapels within three heart beats. It dances to unheard waltzes and minuets and does not care if it looks silly. There are some souls that shine through the impenetrable darkness and fill our hearts with courage and hope for the future.

Some souls, unfortunately, are not often heard or seen. They lie dormant within us; they hide from the horrors that we face daily. They make themselves invisible...and, if we are not careful, they disappear entirely. These souls are lost within their bodies and their empty lives, and are almost never understood or capable of understanding themselves. They live for purposes instilled in them, purposes that have been there since their births. No one is quite sure what happens to these lost souls when their purposes are taken away…

***

He'd been walking for a very, very long time now. He wasn't sure how long it had been since...since he'd killed _him_, and saved his friends from destruction. He hadn't turned around to face their smiling faces, their triumphant looks, their shouts of joy, their...gratefulness...and so, he'd just walked away. He'd ignored his friends' happy voices and left amid the celebrating.

He hadn't smiled when Ron had come running up to him or hugged Hermione when she threw her arms around him. He stood silent as his teachers and classmates praised him for destroying Voldemort. He did not smile when Dumbledore led him through the crowd to the Great Hall. He didn't even look surprised when Snape nodded to him.

Snape knew why he was silent. He was thankful his Potions professor said nothing.

The night was filled with owls flying between family and friends, spreading the good news. He'd left Hedwig at school; he wouldn't bring her...it wasn't worth it. He carried nothing except his wand, which was still stained red with the blood of Voldemort...and so, so many others.

They wouldn't miss him tonight. They were too happy and caught up with feasting and celebrating to realise he was gone.

Stars shone down on him. He stopped for a moment, and searched for Mars. It was there, but not bright like it had been for seven years straight. No, its brightness was overshadowed by Saturn, a silent, peaceful planet, but infinitely wise and knowing.

"_'Where was he going, this man against the sky? /you know not, nor do __ I.'_" he murmured into the darkness. His cousin had been given a book of poetry by his grandparents, which was promptly tossed into the rubbish. He'd rescued it, and spent the entire summer reading and rereading it, over and over again. This was a poem he had liked especially; he didn't know why, but it did.

And then, a thought hit him.

He was alone.

He was alone for the first time.

There was no one around him. No one to criticize or advise him.

No one, except the stars.

"Are you listening?" he shouted abruptly. His own voice startled him. "Are you listening to me, Mars, Saturn?"

His wand was forgotten and pushed into his pocket carelessly.

"I'm tired!" he yelled, the words echoing in the night. "I'm tired of everything! I have nothing left to live for! My rivals are gone, the enemy is defeated, and I'm a hero without a purpose. What would you do, Mars, if you had nothing to fight for or against? You've driven me for seven long years! What will I do now?"

He paused, and then started again.

"I hate them! I hate them all! Hell, I even hate Ron, Hermione, Dumbledore, and the Weasleys: all of them! They've done everything for me, and still I go on hating them. As much as I hated Draco, he gave me something to fight about. I can't live with people who are always trying to make it easier for me! IT DOESN'T GET EASIER, DOES IT?"

He breathed deeply, the euphoria from releasing his emotions running through his veins. The anger remained unchecked; he had no feelings to worry about out here.

"He's gone. The one person who killed hundreds of people, including my parents, who gave me the one reason to live, is dead," he ground out through gritted teeth. "What is a hero without a villain? He is nothing; he is lost; in time, he is forgotten. I will be forgotten in time, right?

"Then why do I continue?"

His wand dropped from his pocket and struck the paved road. Its noise shook him from his angry tirade to the stars. For a few moments, he stared, transfixed, at its dark surface plastered with red splotches. Silence reigned in and around him for several minutes, no thought passing through his tired mind. Slowly and suddenly, he picked his wand up from the ground, and continued walking.

_'...Or, mounting with infirm unsearching tread,/His hopes to chaos led,/He may have stumbled up there from the past,/And with aching strangeness viewed the last/Abysmal conflagration of his dreams,--/A flame where nothing seems/To burn but flame itself, by nothing fed;/And while it all went out,/Not even the faint anodyne of doubt/May then have eased the pain of going down/From pictured heights of power and lost renown,/Revealed at length to his outlived endeavour/Remote and unapproachable forever...'_

Not knowing the answer to his last question, he continued walking, ever walking, and never, ever looked back.

***

Quotes are from Edward Arlington Robinson's "The Man against the Sky".


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